


Digestif

by bauble



Series: Amuse-Bouche [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-22 08:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: The follow up to Aperitif, set in the Amuse-Bouche universe in which Eames is a pop star and Arthur is a bodyguard.Arthur and Eames are finally dating. But it turns out they both have some issues to work on, and Eames' run deeper than he initially expected.





	1. Spike

**Author's Note:**

> Companion to Aperitif, after the ending of Amuse-Bouche but before the Epilogue (wedding).

Eames means to bring it up during dinner—he really does. 

Except Arthur tells a joke that segues into an adorable story about his childhood (being squashed between two sisters seems like an exhausting way to grow up) which leads to Arthur gesturing with his wineglass to prove a point, eyes lit up and mouth curved in a radiant smile. Then the food arrives, and of course Eames can't spoil Arthur's rapturous culinary enjoyment with anything unpleasant. 

Afterwards, they return to Arthur's flat and Eames fully intends to sit him down for a serious chat, but that plan falls by the wayside when Arthur closes the door and presses Eames up against it. By the time Eames catches enough of his breath to speak, Arthur's on his knees and it seems hardly polite to pull him away from such enthusiastic cocksucking.

Eames loses the ability to form coherent thoughts during the spectacular blowjob (and they're always spectacular with Arthur). Immediately after, he finds himself arse up and face-down on the bed, keening as Arthur fucks him to a second orgasm. 

Now that he's met Arthur, he could write whole songs about being swept off his feet. Arthur: the sex tornado.

It's only after they've cleaned up that Eames recovers his capacity to speak in full sentences. Arthur's mostly asleep, face mashed into a pillow and left pinky finger hooked into Eames' right. 

There's moonlight spilling through the curtains onto Arthur's smooth skin. As Eames studies him, a swell of anxiety builds in his chest, but he knows he can't—shouldn't—keep delaying this forever.

"Arthur," Eames murmurs, tugging half-heartedly at Arthur's pinky. "Are you awake?"

A minute passes. Eames holds his breath, hoping that this will grant him a reprieve.

"Sort of." Arthur rouses himself, shifting on the mattress and opening one eye. "What is it, baby?"

"There's something I wanted to talk to you about." Eames has to force the words out past the lump that's lodged in his throat. "If you're too tired, it can keep till morning."

Arthur yawns into his pillow, impossibly boyish. "I've got an early meeting tomorrow, so I don't know how much time I'll have in the morning. Is it something important?"

"It's—" Eames hesitates. "This past month together has been wonderful and I'm so incredibly happy to be with you, to be dating you."

"Oh boy." Arthur rolls onto his side, eyes opening. "Now I'm awake."

Eames curls his fingers into Arthur's. "I can't take you to the Grammy's. It has nothing to do with the depth of my feelings for you, it's—Constanza thinks it would be a distraction that could overshadow one of biggest nights of my career. I wish I could bring a handsome man as my date with no more talk than when I bring a beautiful woman, but that's not the world we live in."

In the dark and the quiet, it's hard to make out too much of Arthur's expression. After a pause, he says, "Are you breaking up with me?"

"No. Oh god, no," Eames replies, alarmed. "Arthur, I love—I love being with you, spending time with you, seeing you. Nothing has changed there. This has to do with my career. I adore you, and want to continue seeing you."

"There are already rumors circulating about us in the tabloids and stuff," Arthur says, slowly. "And aren't you out as bi?"

"Technically, but it's one thing to declare oneself bisexual in the abstract and quite another to actively live it in the public eye. I haven't been in a serious relationship with a man in more than a decade." Eames smiles ruefully. "And the tabloids have linked me with everyone from the Queen to the Prime Minister's dog. Anonymous sources quoted in tabloids don't carry quite the same weight as snogging on internationally broadcast television."

"I guess I should cancel my appointment on Savile Row," Arthur says, finally.

"I'm sorry," Eames says, softly. "I didn't mean for this to happen when I asked you. I didn't think it through, and you are well within your rights to be furious at me—"

"I'm not furious." Arthur rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling, hand slipping away. "I don't know if I'm mad or—or what. I mean, I know this is about your career and it's not personal. I don't know. I think I need time to process everything."

"Of course." Eames nods profusely though he probably can't be seen in the dark. "That's—yes, take as long as you'd like."

Arthur rolls onto his side. "Goodnight, Eames."

Eames stares at Arthur's back. He suppresses the urge to move forward. "Goodnight, Arthur."

* * * * *

The next morning, Arthur rises and showers while Eames pretends to be asleep. He watches Arthur dress through slitted eyes, waits for him to come sit on the edge of the bed and put a hand on Eames' knee, to smile and say good morning. But Arthur stays on the other side of the room, quiet until Eames can't take it anymore.

Eames opens his eyes slowly, making a show of yawning and stretching. This finally catches Arthur's attention, though he doesn't move closer.

"Hey, I've gotta run," Arthur says.

"Your meeting," Eames says, and it might not be the most pointlessly obvious thing he's ever said, but it's certainly somewhere in the top ten. The tension is growing painful. "Have a good… day at work."

"I'll call you, okay?" Arthur says as he slips out the door. "We can talk later."

* * * * *

Days pass. Eames rings Arthur, with no answer.

He calls again, a few hours later.

A few (many) drinks later, he calls once more. He's prepared a speech. When Arthur picks up, Eames launches into his speech.

He's halfway through the speech when he realizes Arthur has not, in fact, picked up. The voicemail cuts him off.

Eames, naturally, calls Arthur back again, and leaves a message to explain the situation.

Ten minutes later, he calls again to apologize for leaving so many messages.

Fifteen minutes after that, he reaches the bottom of his wine bottle and decides to stop drinking. By 'decides' he actually means 'can't be arsed to haul himself to the kitchen for another bottle and is too embarrassed to ask someone to fetch it'.

He ends up passing out half on his couch and half on the floor.

* * * * *

_Hey, Eames, this is Arthur. I got your… messages. I know you feel bad about the whole Grammy's thing. You don't need to apologize. I get it. I need a few days to think. I'll give you a call when I'm ready to talk._  


* * * * *

"Everything okay?" Sven asks, poking his head into the break room.

"Yes, everything's fine," Eames says, looking up from his phone. "Why do you ask?"

Sven tilts his head towards the phone. "Seems like you're waiting for a mighty important call."

Sven's actual name is not actually Sven, but something filled with a startling number of umlauts that possibly begins with a T. 'Sven' derives from his unofficial musical moniker of 'Swedish pop Svengali,' a title he doesn't seem to mind. He collects odd idioms in his secondary languages like some people collect passport stamps: a living reminder of all the places he's traveled to in his career. It makes for some interesting conversations.

"Oh, waiting on a call from my accountant," Eames lies, faking a grimace. "Taxes are serious business, you know. Or so I hear."

Sven nods knowingly. "Death and taxes, my brother."

"I'll head back into the studio in ten," Eames says. "Figured my vocal cords could use a rest."

"No hurry. I'll be reviewing the last few tracks we laid down," Sven replies. "But remember: a watched pot never boils. And a watched phone never rings."

* * * * *

When Arthur finally does call and invite him to come over, Eames tries to suppress the relief and giddy glee that follows immediately after, but can't quite manage it. Everything's going to be fine.

He does a pirouette in front of the mirror as he's putting on the shirt Arthur likes second best—donning Arthur's favorite would be utterly transparent, after all—and a pair of Eames' tightest-fitting trousers. He's caught Arthur staring at his arse more than once, and Eames has always believed in leading with one's best assets.

He hums as he gets in the car and tells his driver the address. "We're going to see Arthur," Eames says to Flowers, who nods at him indulgently. "I apologize for any noises I might make. I know the walls are terribly thin."

"It's okay," she says. "It's good to see you smiling again, Chief."

Eames asks the driver to stop once for a bottle of wine he knows Arthur's been dying to try, figuring that a little alcohol to smooth over the edges wouldn't go amiss.

When he arrives, he hopes Arthur will tug him inside in a fit of passion, or perhaps to lean against the doorway, dimples in full force, and say, "I've missed you."

What he gets, instead, is Arthur opening the door and politely gesturing for him to come inside. "Hey."

"No hello kiss, my dear?" Eames asks, wincing internally as soon as the words leave his mouth. There are few things less charming than desperation, and Eames is practically dripping in it.

Arthur leans in for the most perfunctory brush of lips against cheek possible and closes the door. 

Eames proffers the wine bottle. Arthur's expression shifts to something pinched--not at all what Eames had been hoping to see. "You shouldn’t have."

"A trifle," Eames says as Arthur sets it down on the table next to the flowers and the basket of imported Parisian macarons Eames had sent over earlier. He can't tell if anything's been eaten. "It's lovely to see you."

"It's good to see you, too," Arthur says as they sit down, but his smile is stiff, forced. "I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier. It's been a little hectic at work."

"Have they assigned you to anyone yet?" Eames knows how much Arthur's been wanting to do something besides train and shadow.

"Not yet." Arthur scrubs a hand across his eyes and Eames notices, for the first time, how tired he sounds. "There's been some upheaval at the firm. People leaving, politics, shake-ups. Don't know what it means for me yet, though."

"You're one of the best in this business," Eames says, learning forward a bit to touch Arthur's knee. "They'd be mad to let you go."

"I hope it's that simple. But that's not—Eames, we should talk about the Grammy's."

"Yes," Eames says, heart sinking as Arthur scoots back, away from Eames' hand.

"I'm not angry at you," Arthur says. "I haven't been in the closet since the military, but I get that sometimes we have to make compromises for the sake of our careers. I know that it's not that you don't want me there."

Eames dares to take Arthur's hands in his. "You don't know how happy it makes me that you understand, darling. I can't believe—I mean, I should have expected as much from you, because you're marvelous—"

"Eames," Arthur interrupts, expression still strangely somber. "I'm not angry, but I've been thinking a lot about—about us."

Something clenches in Eames' gut. "What sort of thoughts?"

"You know I've been here almost four months and I still haven't seen Big Ben or Tower of London?"

"Oh, well, that's easily remedied," Eames says. "I can arrange—"

"Eames," Arthur says quietly. "I haven't made any friends at work. I haven't made any new friends here, period. And it's not—I'm not blaming you. I'm not saying it's your fault. I'm saying it's mine, because I do this. I get too—too wrapped up in a new person and I start to neglect other parts of my life."

"I'm sure that's not true," Eames says weakly as the clenching cold radiates up his body, into his chest. "And you know I'd be perfectly happy to introduce you to people or—"

But Arthur's shaking his head. "I've been leaning on you too much. Leaning further on you to the point of dependency isn't the answer."

"Arthur," Eames starts, not certain of the question he wants to ask. Not certain he wants to hear the answer.

"You're going to be busy rehearsing for the Grammy's," Arthur says. "And you're going Stateside again soon, right?"

"I have a few weeks before that becomes necessary," Eames says, wetting his lips. "I can make time. I can—"

"I think we should take a break," Arthur blurts out. "It's been a whirlwind, me moving to London, seeing you. It's a lot of pressure to put on you when I have a new job and don't know anyone here. I think—maybe we should take it down a notch."

"You want to—" Eames can barely force the words out. "You want to break up?"

"Not break up, exactly." Arthur pulls his hands from Eames'. "Take a step back. I need some time to figure out some things. Start establishing an identity here as a person aside from a celebrity's secret boyfriend. And you're going to be busy and away—"

"Are you unhappy with—" Eames stops and swallows; it's difficult to speak. To breathe. "Am I not—"

"It isn't you," Arthur says. "In a way, this thing with the Grammy's is a blessing. It's reminded me that I'm always rushing into things. None of this is on you. I need to think things over, work out living in a new country."

"Right," Eames says faintly.

"It's not fair for me to ask you to wait around while I'm figuring things out," Arthur continues, and Eames feels his blood freeze in his veins.

"You want to see other people?" The words are like ground up glass in his throat. "Is there someone else?"

"No, it's not like that," Arthur says, but Eames is already imagining it: Arthur kissing a beautiful man, sightseeing on the weekend without worrying about bodyguards or paparazzi or being mobbed by fans. "I can't ask you to hang around while I get my head on straight, to be exclusive. It's not right."

_But I don't want anyone except you_ , Eames wants to say. _I don't want you to forget me, I don't want you to meet anyone else while I'm away, I want you all to myself even if you don't want me._

"That's very—enlightened of you," Eames says stiffly. 

"Believe me, the last thing I—" Arthur halts, and shakes his head. "Look, it doesn't matter. This is my problem. I have a history of going to extremes with my relationships and it's ruined every good thing I've ever had. I don't want that to happen again. I don’t want you to start resenting me for making you wait." 

_I can wait, I promise you I can wait and I won't be a bother, really, you'll hardly notice I'm there_. Eames asks, instead, "Do you know how long this break might last?" 

"I wish I did." Arthur sighs. "I've never lived in a foreign country this long before. Even when I was in the military I was on a base surrounded by Americans and I knew it was temporary. This is... it's been harder than I expected. I need to set down roots of my own, meet some people outside of your circle. Your friends are great, but I don't think they get me." 

"They think you're wonderful," Eames says, because house could anyone think otherwise? 

"They think I'm a weirdo because I don't like music," Arthur says, wryly. "Which is fair. It is weird. And they're musicians—music is their life. I get it. " 

"Do you think after the Grammy's, when I return--?" 

"I don't know. I don't want to make any promises I can't keep. I'm sorry, Eames. I wish I could give you better answers than this." 

Arthur's reverted to calling him 'Eames' and not 'baby'. Eames exhales and steadies himself. He will maintain his composure and will not grovel, though that's what he desperately wishes to do. "I—understand." 

"I'm glad." Arthur seems genuinely relieved. 

"Yes, it all makes perfect sense. I'll be away and busy." Eames feel like there's a ten-ton weight pressing down on his chest, making it impossible to breathe. "We'll talk more when I return." 

"You're the best." Arthur claps him on the back and escorts him to the door. Eames can't remember the last time Arthur did that instead of hugging him, or kissing him, or making love— 

Not love, evidently, on Arthur's side. Eames manages to keep his poker face up until he's out in the hall, the door safely shut behind him. 

He turns to Flowers' open arms without a sound, and buries his face in her shoulder. 

* * * * *

"I cannot believe that ridiculous man," Mal says, stomping around the room while brandishing a mobile phone. "After all that nonsense he spouted." She lowers her voice and takes on a American accent, "I want to fall in love with you. I want to try."

"I'm going to die alone," Eames declares, collapsing onto the sofa and staring up at the ceiling. "No one I love will ever love me in return."

"You're not going to die alone," she replies. "There are many eels in the sea."

"Fish in the sea," Eames corrects automatically, still staring morosely at the ceiling. "I don't want any other fish. Or eels. I want Arthur."

"But Arthur is boring," she says. "The most boring person you have ever dated."

"You know that is an outrageous lie. Hannah was so dull I actually fell asleep conversing with her once."

"I liked Hannah."

"You liked her because she told you constantly that you had pretty hair."

Mal tosses said hair over her shoulder. "I appreciate people who have excellent taste. And if you're not interested in any other eels, there are many women like Hannah who want to be with you."

"I want Arthur."

"I can introduce you to six eligible women and two men," Mal says, holding up her phone. "I can call them right now."

"Mal, please," Eames whispers, covering his face with his hands. "What if Arthur never comes back to me? What if he decides I'm not worth the bother after all?"

"Oh, my dove." She sets down her mobile and gathers him in her arms. "He may be a soulless creature who doesn't listen to music or feel joy, but he's not a complete idiot. He'll come back. I know he will."

* * * * *

 

Rehearsals for the Grammy's begin. The days fill with singing, staging, lighting, costumes, and other considerations for the show. Eames spends long hours practicing his choreography, trying not to hope Arthur will surprise him with an unannounced visit.

Arthur doesn't come by.

* * * * *

Now that rehearsals are underway, there's the matter of what to wear on the red carpet. There are few menswear designers Eames feels can design proper suit, and, up until a few years ago, only one Eames adored with a fanatical devotion.

Then Arthur happened.

Eames hasn't been to Phoenix, Arizona--or spoken directly with Robert Fischer--since last year's tour. Which is completely ridiculous, of course, because Robert is an old friend and brilliant designer. This is what Eames continues to remind himself of as he goes to 528491 and tries on garments Robert has created for him.

"Hey, stranger," Robert says, grinning as he leans forward for a kiss on the cheek. Eames returns it automatically and feels his throat stopper up.

"Hullo," Eames replies, watching Robert bustle around the shop. This is where Robert and Arthur first met. Where they first flirted while Eames pranced about, desperately hopeful that Robert's clothing would help Eames finally catch Arthur's eye.

"You doing okay?" Robert asks while Eames changes into a suit. "Must be pretty hectic, what with the Grammy's only weeks away."

"It's been work nonstop this past month. Barely a moment to breathe." A part of Eames is grateful for it. Throwing himself into rehearsal is preferable to pining after Arthur, or worse, trying to contact him in a drunken stupor. 

There hasn't been any communication other than a brief email inquiry by Arthur regarding the whereabouts of his Sonya Roy bobble-head doll. Eames had found it days earlier underneath the couch and set it on the nightstand, staring at it despondently before going to bed. He offered to drop by Arthur's apartment to return it personally, but Arthur insisted he mail it instead. 

Eames finishes dressing and stares at himself in the mirror. It is a truly magnificent suit. He will look smashing on the red carpet and may make the best dressed list. The satisfaction feels strangely hollow.

"Nervous?" Robert asks, when Eames steps out of the changing room.

A part of Eames wonders, why Robert and not me? "I'd be shaking if I stopped to think about it."

"You're going to be amazing. You know that, right?" Robert meets Eames' eyes in the mirror. "I'm going to be cheering so loud you hear me from three states over."

"You're a good friend," Eames says, with all the enthusiasm he can muster. "And a bloody fantastic designer."

"You bring my clothes to life." Robert straightens one of Eames' sleeves. "I forgot to ask if you're going with a date. Any accessories you need me to color coordinate?"

"Going stag to this one. Best to have no distractions."

"Good idea. And hey, maybe you'll meet someone hot at the show. I hear Luis Estefan will be there."

"I'll have to keep an eye out," Eames replies, dully. It occurs to him that Robert doesn't know he and Arthur started dating. Which should be fine so long as-- 

"Hey, do you remember Arthur?" Robert asks, bending down to examine the hem of Eames' left trouser leg. "He doesn't work for you anymore, does he?"

"I—no. No, he doesn't," Eames says, suddenly glad Robert can't see his expression. "He took a new job."

"I feel bad about the way things went between us. I thought we were on the same page, but he wanted—well, it was my fault for assuming."

"That's right," Eames says, feeling his mood sink lower. Arthur wanted more and Robert chucked it like some idiotic swine. "You and Arthur went on—what was it, three dates?"

"Two dates. Though they were pretty damn good ones, if you know what I mean," Robert drawls suggestively. As a friend, Eames wants to congratulate Robert on his sexual prowess. As Arthur's maybe-ex-boyfriend, Eames wants to claw Robert's pretty eyes out. "I wrote him off as a casual fling on account of the travel and the lifestyle, but we've started talking again and I've been thinking—maybe I was too hasty. You know?"

The bottom falls out of Eames' stomach. "You—I didn't know you were still in contact."

"Yeah, he's on Facebook now." Robert doesn't seem to notice Eames sliding into a vat of despair. "He posted some photos and we started messaging. He's funny, really down to earth and cool. Not another flake who works in the entertainment industry."

"I'm aware," Eames says, shortly. Technophobic Arthur using Facebook? Why hasn't Arthur friended Eames?

"Sorry, I didn't mean to imply that you hire flakes. You work with great people," Robert says, clearly misattributing the tension in the air. "I should have known he'd be great because I met him through you."

The mature thing to do would be to tell Robert that Arthur and Eames are dating. Were dating. Dated. A fresh wave of anxiety breaks over Eames—what if he and Arthur are truly done? What if they reconvene and Arthur tells him: _I've had enough of you. Being single is fun. Or, I'm in love with Robert. He's the one I wanted all along._

"He's in London now," Eames says, looking away from Robert's apologetic expression. "It doesn't seem very practical with him that far away."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that." Robert circles around to smooth the back of Eames' jacket. "My line is starting to take off and maybe it's time for me to move to a bigger market. Why not London? It's one of the international capitals of menswear, and I could probably learn a lot from being there."

You stay the hell away, Eames wants to shout. You had your chance and you tossed it in the bin. You broke Arthur's heart and now you think you can waltz back in with your high cheekbones and elegant hair and—

"Anyway." Robert's bone structure appears especially refined in all three angles of the tailor's mirror. "I wasn't sure if you guys were still in contact, or if you happened to know if he was seeing anyone."

They would be the most beautiful and beautifully dressed brunet couple in existence. Robert is handsome and intelligent and independently wealthy. He also doesn't need bodyguards, or to run from paparazzi. Arthur could have a gorgeous, peaceful life with Robert.

"I don't think he has a boyfriend," Eames says, aiming for a neutral tone. "But I couldn't tell you what else he might be doing at the moment. I wasn’t even aware he was on Facebook."

"Oh yeah, he's been pretty active lately. Posted some cute photos of him and his sister." Robert makes several small chalk marks along Eames' lapel. "At Westminster Abbey, near Big Ben, all that stuff."

Una is in London. That's good, at least. Arthur has been missing her terribly in the past few months. 

"Hot damn." Robert takes a step back so Eames can see himself fully in his reflections. "A few alterations and you'll be making heads spin on the red carpet."

Eames meets Robert's eyes and forces himself to smile.

* * * * *

 

Finding Arthur on Facebook is easy. Getting access to his private profile proves difficult.

It's locked to strangers, and Eames can't bring himself to send a friend request. After all, Arthur hasn't reached out to him on Facebook, and that's likely intentional. They do, however, share two mutual friends already: Ariadne and Dom Cobb.

"Ariadne, my precious plum," Eames says over the phone.

"Eames, my pickled pear," she replies, sounding confused. "Why are we talking like this?"

"It's about Facebook—"

"You know your social media posting privileges have been revoked for all public accounts until after the Grammy's," she says immediately. "You remember the feuds you started? Or the carrot incident?"

"No—well, yes, I do, but that's not what I'm interested in," he says. "I was wondering if I might log in to your Facebook account. Your personal one."

"Why?" she says, sounding instantly suspicious.

He takes a deep breath. "Arthur's been posting recently."

There's a pause. "Oh," she says, voice unbearably gentle and pitying. "You guys aren’t Facebook friends?"

"He requested space," Eames says, every word an effort to force out. "I'm trying to give him that."

"By spying on him online?"

"It's not like that," Eames says, utterly unconvincing because they both know it's precisely like that.

She sighs. "I know you're not used to people saying no to you, but I'm saying no. Not because I don't love you, but because I don't think it would be a good idea."

"Of course. I completely understand," he lies.

"For the record: I'm sorry. I really thought you guys were—well, you seemed really happy."

"Me, too," Eames says quietly, after she's already hung up.

* * * * *

 

"Arthur!" Eames exclaims, running across the Millennium Bridge. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Oh, hey," Arthur says, turning to face Eames with a decidedly less enthusiastic tone. "It's you."

Eames hesitates before reaching for Arthur's hand. It's limp, unresponsive. "What are you doing out here?"

"Meeting someone," Arthur scans the horizon over Eames' shoulder distractedly. Arthur's voice is casual, and he makes no move to pull Eames into his arms. "Guess I've got a few minutes to chat before they get here. I've been meaning to talk to you about something for a while now."

A chill breeze sweeps across the Thames, and Eames can't help but press closer to Arthur, eager for his warmth. Arthur doesn't move away, and Eames feels--hopeful. "Yes?" 

"I know we talked about being on a break, but I've decided I'd like to make it permanent."

Everything seems to stop. Eames can't breathe. "You want to—it's over, then?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"I, um." Eames sucks in a deep, painful mouthful of oxygen. "But I thought we were—were you not happy? With me?"

"Happy? Where do I start?" Arthur snorts. "There's your crazy schedule, the weird media scrutiny, and the fact that all you talk about is music. I mean, come on—don't you have any other hobbies? Interests?"

Something aches in Eames' throat. "I had no idea you felt that way."

"I was trying to do the decent thing by trying to make it work, but let's be real. You can't give me what I want."

Eames feels as if his insides have been scooped out of his chest. "Perhaps I could—I could make some improvements in the areas you find lacking, try—"

"Improvements." Arthur gives him a pitying look. "You'd have to become a different person."

"Still," Eames says, not willing to give up. Not yet. "I could try. Tell me what I should improve upon."

"You really want to know?" Arthur shrugs. "You're a shitty lay. I mean, don't get me wrong—your ass is tight and you're flexible, but I practically fall asleep when you fuck me. And your blowjobs—totally disappointing given your mouth and profession."

"I'm sorry. I had no idea how much of a—that I hadn't been satisfying you," Eames whispers. "I can practice. I'll try whatever you want. I can—"

"It's not just the lousy sex," Arthur interrupts. "It's you. You and your high maintenance life. And there's the touring. You expect me to believe you don't stick your dick in every twenty-something that throws themself at you?"

"I've done things in the past that I'm not proud of," Eames says, shame welling up inside him. "But I've never cheated. I never would. I don't want anyone except you."

"Oh sure. You became a world famous musician so you could come home to the same person every night."

"In the past I might have—I played around, I admit it," Eames says. "But having all that sex never made me happy, never made me feel like—like the way I feel with you."

"That explains so much," Arthur says. "Dramatic. Needy. High strung. Barely a few months of dating and you're already smothering me."

The words slice deeply, leave Eames winded and shaky. "I know I'm not easy to—to be with, but I can try harder. I'll do better if you give me another chance."

"Why?" Arthur asks, flatly. "I could have anyone in the world. Why you?"

Arthur is right. What can Eames offer that Arthur can't find easily elsewhere? Of course Eames knows. It's what he's always had to offer.

"I—" Eames' voice wavers. "I can give you anything you want. A car, a house, a restaurant—anything. Name it and it's yours."

"Are you trying to buy me, Eames?" Arthur asks, sounding disgusted by the very idea.

Eames sinks to his knees, desperate now. More desperate than he can ever remember feeling. "You can—you can see other people while I'm on tour. I'd understand. I'll be faithful, I'll come back to you and I won't sleep with anyone else. I'll be all yours, I swear. The sex is—I can make the sex better. Whatever you'd like."

Arthur stares down at Eames dispassionately. "I can get the same from Robert without the baggage."

"Arthur." Eames presses his wet cheek to Arthur's trousers. "Don't leave me. Please. I want to be with you, whatever it takes. You can—you can see Robert, too. I won't tell. No one will know about us. You can do whatever you want. I just, I—"

"Our little secret, hm?" Arthur leans down to take Eames' chin in between his thumb and forefinger. "Pathetic. I don't know what I ever saw in you."

Eames wakes up with a sob and half an erection. He rolls onto his side and wrings a rough orgasm from his cock to the memory of Arthur's smile, his low voice, the way he once looked into Eames' eyes and said, "Hi, baby. I'm so happy to see you."

* * * * *

Mal has been married to Dom for ages, and Eames knew him before that. Dom's a good manager, a good friend, and a good husband. Soon to be a good father.

But sometimes, Eames still hates Dom's stupid fucking guts.

"About Arthur," Dom starts.

"If you're here to tell me it's all for the best and I'm better off acting bloody straight, you can—"

"No, I heard from Mal what happened," Dom's voice crackles across the phone. "I'm sorry. I don't know that's going on with him right now, but I'm sure he'll come around."

Eames feels all his misdirected rage dissipate in an instant, a vague sense of embarrassment rise up to take its place. It isn't in Dom's nature to be cruel, not intentionally. "I hope so."

"I heard you were asking Ariadne about access to her Facebook account. And I'm sure you know—I'm friends with Arthur, too."

Eames stills. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"You have swear not to tell Mal or Ariadne about this."

"I swear, Dom, I absolutely swear," Eames says, practically dancing in his chair. "And—thank you."

"I understand," Dom says quietly. "If Mal ever—if something like this ever happened to me, this is what I'd want, too."

* * * * *

Arthur's profile photo features he and Una smiling in front of Big Ben. His most recent status update is 'Una is here!' with no fewer than six exclamation points and four smiley face emoticons. It is unimaginably cute.

There's a photo album of various tourist sites. He and Una wearing quizzical expressions at Stonehenge, standing at attention at Buckingham Palace, waving on the London Eye. Eames feels a twinge—if he'd insisted on accompanying them, they would have had to close down each attraction to the public or risk being hounded by paparazzi the whole while.

Eames clicks through Arthur's friends list. At the top is Una and a woman with short hair that must be Arthur's other sister. 

Arthur doesn't appear to be dating anyone in particular based on his 'single' status. He also responds to all his public posts and messages with a sort of generic friendliness, neither encouraging nor discouraging the flirtations directed his way.

Based on the content of the exchanges, Eames surmises that a fair amount of the men posting are former and would-be paramours. It's a virtual parade of gay men, each more gorgeous than the last.

He takes an especially close look at the profiles of the few exes he knows by name: Tajima and Raafe.

Tajima turns out to be a Japanese-Hawaiian sun god with a flowing waterfall of silky black hair and the sculpted body of a surfer. A bit of googling reveals that he recently became the spokesperson of a well-known surfboard company, and can now be can seen across the internet in various stages of undress, running on beaches with matchless athletic grace.

Raafe is on the opposite end of the human spectrum: a prize-winning investigative reporter with a storied career doing hard-hitting journalism in dangerous parts of the world. In addition to being a graduate of Harvard and Yale who speaks five languages, he's a fantastic writer and handsome to boot.

Meanwhile, Eames writes pop songs and dances in silly costumes for a living.


	2. The Descent

The week leading up to the Grammy's is a whirlwind of press, last minute costume fittings, and dress rehearsals. Eames is nominated for a few awards in addition to being a performer, so he puts together a list of people to thank. 

The actual show itself goes as most do: blinding flashbulbs on the red carpet, saying hi to people he barely knows, sitting around as winners are announced and boring speeches are made.

He goes backstage about halfway through the show and changes into costume, sits for makeup, gets miked. The dancers and band gather round for their ritual game of hacky sack before they head to the stage, ready to start the show. 

Their vigorous preparations pay off: everyone dances in perfect synchronicity, the sound system and lighting work exactly as planned, and Eames can feel the music soaring through him. The crowd's energy feeds him as he sings, lifting him into the heights that only a great performance can. The applause resounds at the end. 

Backstage, dozens of people gather to clap—musicians, crews, presenters waiting in the wings. Eames thanks them automatically, too shot through with adrenaline to focus or talk.

He's herded by Casper to his dressing room. Nothing charges him up like a stellar show, and it felt right. Good.

He wonders if Arthur saw it.

* * * * *

Eames wins some awards. There's no one to kiss when his name is announced, no face to focus on in the crowd. He reads the names on the crumpled list he digs out of his pocket.

The evening is a career high, a triumph. He tries to feel happy.

* * * * *

There are too many after-party invitations to field, so Eames picks a few at random and resolves to spend a half hour at each. Make an appearance, say his hellos, leave.

The first party he attends is at a high-end nightclub with go-go dancers and aerialists. It's loud and crowded, with scantily clad servers serving champagne. Eames snags a glass and wanders until he finds someone he knows—Sven.

Sven and his coterie congratulate Eames on his wins, praise his performance. He watches a video of it on someone's phone; it filmed well. 

"Big night, eh?" Sven says, clapping Eames on the back. "Great day for your career."

Eames summons a smile. "It is. I'm glad it went off well."

Sven spots a blonde woman making eyes at Eames and claps him on the shoulder again. "Could get even better, yeah?"

Eames lifts his glass to her as Sven slips away. She's a huge fan, she says. She adored his performance. She'd love to go somewhere quieter.

She offers to blow him in the limo and Eames doesn't say no, averting his eyes from the thin privacy screen separating them from the driver and Casper. He hasn't done this in a while, not since before the last tour; he never wanted Arthur to see him like this. To think he was just another asshole musician cliché.

She puts a good deal of effort into sucking his cock, but Eames can't quite manage to come. She regards him with a mixture of anxiety and disappointment when Casper announces their arrival at the next party over the intercom.

Eames buttons up his trousers and leads her inside, where they're escorted to the bar's roped-off VIP area. There are attractive women serving overpriced drinks and a literal golden platter of drugs: cocaine, an assortment of pills artfully displayed for the taking. 

He considers snorting something, seriously considers it in a way he hasn't in over a year. It would take the edge off the hollowness in his chest, help him forget the stinging hurt that Arthur hasn't reached out to congratulate him. Maybe it is over. Maybe Arthur's decided he's done with Eames.

Then the memory of Mal's ashen face comes flooding back. The stale taste of vomit, the sterile smell of a hospital room and the scratchy gown against his thighs. The way she said, "I thought you were dead."

Eames' date from the previous party chooses to partake in the platter. She selects an amphetamine and offers him some. After a long moment, he declines.

He can remember being a lonely teenager, sneaking into nightclubs through back entrances and bribery, how he'd stared jealously at VIP sections. He'd imagined a rain of constant attention and alcohol, all the men and women you could ever desire throwing themselves at you.

Now Eames sits on a slippery leather couch sipping lukewarm drinks and wishes he could be some anonymous nobody on the other side of the rope. Dancing in the middle of the crowd, toasting with friends instead of good-looking strangers. 

People approach him in a steady stream for autographs, photographs. Once they get what they want, most depart to show off to their friends.

The required half hour passes and Eames leaves for the next party, sans date.

The driver takes him to Luis Estefan's mansion. There's quieter music (a DJ in the house, a low-key jazz band outside) and a guest list of models, actors, and high powered Hollywood types.

Eames greets Luis by the pool, exchanges pleasantries. Luis congratulates him on his awards and performance, charming as ever. "Only one in your entourage tonight?" Luis asks, nodding at Casper.

"My manager is at home with his hugely pregnant wife and my personal assistant is on vacation," Eames replies. "I assured them I could make it through a single night without supervision."

"I see," Luis says. "And no date?"

Eames feels his smile falter. "No. I'm currently not—seeing anyone at the moment."

"Well, in that case." Luis beckons a man over. "Let me introduce you to my friend Sean."

Sean is a striking former model, with red hair and green eyes. He's a fan of Eames' music and has seen him in concert three times.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the show enough to come back for more," Eames replies, already conversing on autopilot. Sean seems intelligent enough—he's going to school for something Eames didn't quite catch and doesn't care enough to ask about—and very flirtatious. It's not particularly surprisingly when he takes Eames' hand and escorts him to a bathroom upstairs, sinks to his knees.

"Must have had too much to drink," Eames says when he fails to grow fully erect under Sean's assiduous attention.

"That’s okay," Sean says, standing and wiping the spit from his mouth. "You've had a long night. It happens."

Eames should probably offer a handjob in return, but he's exhausted and starting to feel queasy after his ninth--tenth?--glass of champagne. "It was very nice to meet you."

He makes his way back downstairs and bids farewell to Luis, who winks as he leaves. 

The last thing Eames does before he goes to sleep alone in his hotel room is log in to Dom's Facebook account. 

Arthur posted exactly one thing in the past twenty-four hours, directed at Robert: _Great work on the red carpet tonight!_

* * * * *

Eames wakes up in the afternoon to a flood of texts from Mal, Cobb, Ariadne and someone who identifies himself as Sean. It takes Eames an hour to remember who he is.

No word from Arthur.

* * * * *

Before Eames rings the doorbell, Casper puts a hand on his shoulder and says, "You sure about this, boss?"

Eames startles. Casper almost never gives his opinion unsolicited. "What do you mean? I'm visiting old friends."

"Yeah." Casper takes a step back, expression troubled. "You think maybe there's a reason you haven't seen them in a while?"

Eames stares down at the ground. Perhaps there is, but it's one he doesn't care to think much about. And besides, he already rang and promised he'd come—he can't back out now.

"Eamesy!" Danny exclaims when he opens the door. "How the hell are you?"

"Frightfully excellent," Eames replies, deepening his accent for comedic effect.

Danny lets out a booming laugh, right on cue. "Still fucking British, I see. Man, I love it. Who the hell talks like that?"

"Me and your great-grand aunt, I wager," Eames says. "I can't stay for long, I've an interview in an hour."

"Of course, of course—here, have a drink." Danny passes Eames a beer bottle before he can protest that it's only ten in the morning. "You look tense. Gotta unclench before your interview, right?"

"I suppose that’s true." Eames takes a swig of his beer, relishing the tickle of alcohol as he follows Danny in to the living room. The rest of Danny's band is relaxing in there, along with several pretty women.

"Look who it is, guys," Danny says. "Eamesy, the whole crew is here."

Eames greets the band (Skid, Jax, and Liam). They congratulate him on his awards and performance. He's introduced to the women as well, though their names slip away as soon as they utter them.

"Have a seat," Danny says, ushering Eames to one of the couches. A leggy brunette with large and likely artificial breasts takes a seat beside him. She's a huge fan, she says. She loves music. Her favorite song is _Land of Smiles_. 

"Want a hit?" Jax asks. He's sharing a giant bong with another top-heavy brunette.

"I'd best not. I have an interview in an hour," Eames demurs.

"You sure? This is, like pure medical grade," Jax replies. "Skid has a 'license' for his knee pain."

"It's good shit," Skid chimes in with a wink. his voice has gotten raspier since they last saw each other. Probably a smoker's rasp, given the ashtray full of cigarette butts beside him. "Thank god for knee injuries, right?"

"Who you interviewing with?" Danny asks. "Depending on who it is, you might need to be high to get through it."

"Anthony Walker over at _Rolling Stone_ ," Eames says.

"Shit, man," Danny says as the whole band groans. "That jackass hates musicians and music, I swear."

"Nah, he doesn't hate us. He's a bottom feeder, trying to make a career off our suffering," Skid says.

"Forget pot, let's get you something harder," Jax says, tossing a plastic baggie full of pills Eames' way. "You're going to need it."

"He's that bad?" Eames says. The last thing he needs is a terrible cover—what would Arthur think?

"Let me put it this way," Skid says, "All he wants is the dirtiest, most controversial story he can get—doesn't matter if it's true or not. Or if the poor SOB he's interviewing has a career go down in flames because of it."

Eames sighs. He's dealt with vultures before, and it never goes well. He takes another drink of his beer, blood pressure already beginning to rise.

"I got this theory about the people who work in entertainment or media journalism," Skid says. "They're people who haven't got the talent or drive to actually make music, so they fuse themselves to us like barnacles on the underside of a whale. Act like they're objective observers when really, they're parasites along for the ride."

"I don't think they're all like that," Eames says, thinking of Teddy. "Though you might be right about some."

"You're a real generous guy, Eamesy," Danny says. "I mean, you should be the most pissed out of all of us, with the way the paparazzi and tabloids are always hounding you."

"Paparazzi and tabloids are one thing," Eames says. "But journalists—"

"A reporter's job is to get an interesting story to sell more copies of whatever they write in. Your job in an interview is to promote something you poured your heart and soul into. But does anyone want to hear about how you spent hundreds of hours working over a single song, making each part of it sound perfect? And then repeated that process twenty times to cut an entire album? No, no one wants to read that," Skid says. "People would rather read about sex and fuckups that have nothing to do with the work."

"People are always trying to get something, trying to hitch a ride on the fame wagon," Jax says, putting an arm around a petite blonde who stares up at him with a blank smile. "Easier than busting their asses like we did."

"You lot have gotten cynical," Eames says, taking another swig from his bottle. He's nearly finished it and not sure when that happened.

"Having a manager steal from you for ten years will do that," Skid says, and underneath the anger, there's a note of sadness.

"It's those two philosophizing downers," Danny says, pointing at Skid and Jax. "Liam's still alright."

"Seems like it," Eames comments as Liam lets out of a loud snore from the couch he's fast asleep on. "By the way, where's the loo?"

"Jenny, babe," Danny addresses the brunette currently curled up beside Eames. "You want to show Eames where the upstairs bathroom is?"

"Absolutely," Jenny murmurs, unfurling her long legs. "Let me give you the grand tour."

* * * * *

Eames wakes up to someone shaking his arm. He groans, head hazy. He's mostly naked and in a bed that's unfamiliar. It takes him in a moment to identify it as one of Danny's guest bedrooms.

"Hey, boss," Casper says. Eames can tell Casper is trying to be quiet, but the sound of his voice is grating, too loud. "Mal wants to talk to you."

"What?" Eames rasps, groggy. The curtains are closed, but the light leaking in makes his eyes hurt.

"She says she's been calling you for hours," Casper says, glancing over at the naked woman on the other side of the bed. "Said the guy from Rolling Stone said you never showed, so she panicked and called me."

"Fuck," Eames mutters. He sits up, his whole body aching. Whatever was in the pills he took earlier clearly did not agree with his system. "What time is it?"

"A little after eight PM," Casper says and Eames winces—where the hell did the day go?

Eames pats the sheets around him for his mobile—his trousers are long gone—and finds it wedged underneath a soap dish. He has no recollection of bringing a soap dish with him to bed. "Shit."

Twenty missed calls from Mal, five voicemails, and ten messages with increasing levels of concern at his lack of response.

"Goddamnit," Eames says. "Is the driver still—"

"Yeah, he's parked outside." Casper shifts uneasily. "We've been waiting."

"Fuck, I'm sorry." Eames fumbles along the floor, searching for his clothing. "I don't know how this happened. I didn't intend to stay this long."

"Right, yeah, I'm gonna go wait in the hall," Casper says, averting his eyes. 

"Yeah, I'll meet you out there." Eames finds his underwear and eases it on, all of his joints somehow aching at once. He hasn't had such a terrible comedown from amphetamines in years. "Tell Mal I'll call her back."

Eames dresses. The naked woman—Jenny, her name was—is unconscious. He stops make sure she's still breathing before exiting into the hallway.

The house is quiet as they head downstairs, most of the band having apparently left. The only one still in the living room is Danny, who is snorting cocaine off the petite blonde from earlier. He lifts his hand to wave at Eames, gaze unfocused, as the blonde giggles.

They walk outside, where the sun is beginning to set and the car is still waiting. "I'm awfully sorry, Casper," Eames says. "I don't know how this happened."

"Okay, boss," Casper replies. He doesn't sound like he believes Eames. Eames doesn't really believe himself.

"Have I missed all the appointments for today?" Eames asks the driver once he's seated. "Is there anything I can salvage?"

"You had an interview, a lunch meeting, several radio interviews, and a dinner," the driver replies. "The dinner reservation was scheduled for an hour ago, if you'd like me to take you to the restaurant."

"It's across town and there's no way I'll make it in any reasonable amount of time." Eames sighs as he imagines Algernon's expression. "I'm sure she's already left by now, anyway. I should call and beg for forgiveness."

"Would you like me to take you back to the hotel then, sir?"

"Yeah." Eames slumps back in his seat, wondering how he allowed things to become so royally fucked in less than five days of being in Los Angeles.

* * * * *

The mature thing to do would be to call his pregnant, worried best friend back.

Eames does not do the mature thing. What he does instead is turn off his mobile and slink onto Dom's Facebook account. He's certain he won't like what he finds, and yet he can't help but hope that Arthur's said something, anything about—

A new series of photos has been uploaded to Arthur's timeline, captioned, 'An American in London'. The American in question is none other than Robert Fischer.

Eames feels sick with stomach-curdling jealousy. There Robert is, taking shameless selfies with Arthur in front of Big Ben. There they are, smiling into the camera with their cheeks pressed together, looking dashing and handsome and perfect—absolutely perfect.

How dare he, Eames thinks, a rage rising up in him the likes of which he hasn't felt since he was sixteen. How dare Robert do this to him, steal Eames' relationship, his joy, the beautiful man Eames found first—

"Casper, bring the driver round," Eames says, yanking his hotel room door open. "We're going to the bloody shops for some decent fucking alcohol."

* * * * *

"Eames," Casper says. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine," Eames replies shortly, drumming his fingertips on the inside of the limo door.

"I heard about Arthur," Casper says, after a long pause. "I'm sorry."

"I wish people would stop saying that to me," Eames says, aware he's being short and snappish, yet unable to quite stop himself. "It's not as if he's dead. He's in London. We're on separate continents. This is quite practical in fact."

"It's only—" Casper hesitates, clearly uncomfortable. "He's a good guy. And I know how you felt about him."

"We were together barely a month." Eames tries to force a lightness into his tone. "What could I possibly feel about him after a month? It's absurd. I'm fine. Everything's fine."

They arrive at a liquor store and Eames hops out before Casper can offer to go inside for him. Eames spent the day in confined spaces—a bedroom, hotel room, the inside of the limo—and it's becoming claustrophobic. 

Luckily, the store is mostly empty. One customer does a double take, but no one approaches. Eames grabs bottles of whisky and Scotch, hurries to pay. It's the cashier that finally says something.

"Can I get a photo with you? My girlfriend's a huge fan," the cashier's a twenty-something with lank brown hair and a cracked iPhone screen.

"Of course," Eames says, wishing he could simply buy his alcohol and leave.

"Man, she's going to be so psyched I met you." The cashier poses for a selfie and Eames manages a wan smile. "You probably hear that a lot."

"I'm blessed with many wonderful fans." Eames wonders when this conversation will be over. He's ready to leave and drink the awful day away.

"I like your music, but my girlfriend, she's like—she's a superfan. You know?" The cashier shakes his head. "Actually, I'm kind of glad she's not here, now that I think about it. I'm not sure what she'd do."

"She sounds like a lovely girl."

"She's great, but you must," the cashier leans in conspiratorially, "you must get a ton of play, right? Like, all 9's and 10's and models, I bet."

Eames forces another half smile and demurs. The last thing he wants to do is talk about his failure of a love life with a total stranger. It's not as if this kid is going to appreciate a nuanced discussion of exactly who and what fame attracts. 

"You've got the life, man," the cashier continues, with an envy that's become familiar to Eames over the years. The look that says, _why you and not me?_ "Rich and famous. I bet nobody turns you down. You can get whatever you want."

"Something like that," Eames says.


	3. In truth

Eames returns to his hotel room and applies himself vigorously to the whiskey. No need for tumblers when one can drink straight from the bottle.

He's reached the apex of his musical career, accumulated a fortune in addition to his family wealth, become internationally renowned. But none of that has ever mattered to Arthur, not really. It's part of what drew him to Arthur, if Eames is honest with himself. Who is this mysterious creature who isn't enchanted by his song, lured in by the promise of riches, who doesn't desire one who is desired by all?

Everything has a cost, and here it is: none of the external trappings are enough to make Arthur stay. To inspire him to love Eames.

Maybe Arthur isn't coming back.

Eames sets down the whisky bottle and stares at it until the image blurs, fat wet tears rolling down his cheeks. Perhaps it truly is over.

Who can bear to feel this way? 

He begins to pace. He's restless, ready to escape and be around people. Why is he moping in his hotel room anyway? He could go out, make a phone call and be ferried to the hottest nightclub in Los Angeles. Or he could call Danny and have a swarm of people come to him, start a party in his hotel room. There's no reason he has to be alone and miserable.

Danny would bring the band. Women. Men, if Eames asked. And substances more potent than alcohol. He doesn’t have to sit with this awful despair, this heartache. He doesn't have to feel anything at all.

It would be so easy, Eames thinks as he downs another glass of whisky. No more sadness, no more pain, no more anger. Only mindless pleasure, sweet relief. Escape.

He's on his phone, ready to call Danny, when a new text message from Mal appears: _are you okay?_

Eames sinks to the floor, back propped up against the minibar. What is he doing? What is he thinking? This isn't the answer—he knows it isn't. Then what is?

Hecan remember the way his stomach dropped when he saw Robert in Arthur's bed last year. He'd felt nauseous, furious at Robert's betrayal. Eames had wanted to storm into the room and shove him right out of bed, shouting: _how dare you?_

That would have been completely unfair. Robert had no idea. He'd effortlessly been able to do what Eames failed to: capture Arthur's interest.

Unbidden, another memory rises up: Mal showing him a picture of her ultrasound several months ago. "It's a girl," she said, and Eames expected to be overjoyed. He'd wanted to celebrate with her, to help her put behind the string of painful miscarriages she'd suffered in the past three years.

But Eames hadn't felt glad at all. It hit his stomach, too, as unpleasant as discovering Robert and Arthur together had been. It meant the baby was finally real, was finally on its way. It meant that Mal wouldn't--

Eames cuts off that line of thought and leans back into his chair. He pulls out his mobile and opens a familiar photo. He enjoys rising early, but Arthur is the definition of a morning person, getting up to exercise, shower, and cook before Eames is anywhere near awake. Eames has woken up to countless delicious breakfasts in bed: eggs, French toast, waffles—usually followed by a luxurious blowjob and some cuddling. It's a ritual that's enough to make anyone love mornings.

The picture is from a rare day that Eames woke up before Arthur. Arthur's sprawled across the pillow, the corner of his mouth curved in sleep, the outline of his face achingly beautiful. 

Eames takes another swig as he makes a call. This is a mistake, a dim part of his brain warns him.

"Hello?" Arthur's deep voice echoes across the line, sounding—sleepy. Confused.

"Hello," Eames replies, loudly. Too loudly. He winces.

"Eames?" There's a rustle that sounds like sheets. "Is everything okay?"

"I won a Grammy," Eames declares, lower in decibels. "Several, actually."

"Oh, that's—that's right, congratulations." There's more rustling—then the sound of Arthur climbing out of bed, maybe. Eames strains to hear another man's voice, breathing in the background. "Your performance was phenomenal."

"You watched? Why didn't you call?" the words come out petulant, needy. He can't stop them.

"Of course I watched." Arthur pauses. "Are you okay?"

"I may have had too much to drink." Eames exhales. "Probably had too much to drink. I hate LA. I'm here by myself."

That was the wrong thing to say, he realizes belatedly. Arthur's tone, which had been concerned, turns chillier. "That must be rough."

"Shit, I didn't mean—" Eames stops and swallows. "I meant I wish you were here."

There's a silence. "Maybe we should have this conversation later."

"But I want to be with you now," And there's that whining again, Christ.

"Eames, I think you should go to bed."

'Eames' and not 'baby'. "Are you with Robert? Am I keeping you from him?" The words are out of Eames' mouth before he can stop them. A part of him doesn't want to.

There's another silence. "I don't think this is a conversation we should be having right now."

"Why? Is it because you don't want to talk to me anymore?" Eames takes a deep swallow. "You've found someone else? Someone with cheekbones like cut glass?"

"I'm half-asleep, it sounds like you're drunk, and I don't want to talk when we're like this."

 _I don't want to talk_ , reverberates in Eames' mind, growing and growing until it blocks out everything else. "You don't care about me anymore?"

"You know that's not--Eames, I've got work in the morning and I need to go back to bed. We can discuss everything later, after we've both gotten some sleep."

Eames wants to hang up. He wants to rage and scream and cry. He wants to make Arthur hear him.

But Arthur is asking him to sleep. Arthur is asking him to drink some water. Arthur is asking him to call later. Eames feels his heart lift in hope. Maybe--

"Okay." Eames sets his bottle down. "I am tired."

"Tomorrow, alright?"

"Yes," Eames agrees and impulsively adds, "I miss you."

There's a small sigh on the other end of the phone. "Goodnight, Eames."

* * * * *

The next morning comes with a hangover and a side of burning shame.

Eames orders room service, dumps the remaining alcohol, and takes a shower. He feels marginally less disgusting afterwards, and tries to muster the strength to call Arthur.

Before he can, the phone rings.

Eames stares at it, a second swell of sickening heat rising, about to spill into his throat. He forces himself to pick up.

"Eames," Mal says, the single relieved syllable chasing away the gut-roiling fear. "Thank god. I was so worried."

"I'm sorry." Eames slides onto the floor beside the sofa, curling his knees up to his chest. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"What happened? Casper said you missed your interviews." 

"Mal," Eames starts, and can't finish the sentence.

"Have you started using again?" He expected anger, hysteria or perhaps tears—not this low, inflectionless tone. Not this question.

"I--" A part of him wants is to deny it. To lie. He can't quite bring himself to do it, but can't manage honesty, either.

She takes a shallow breath that cuts more deeply than recriminations. "I see."

"I didn't mean for it to happen." Is that true? It was he that called Danny, after all. Because he knows what Danny and Jax and Skid and Liam are like. He knew.

"Dom told me you didn't go to any of your appointments. I thought, that's not like you, the only reason you would not go is if you were sick or hurt. You wouldn't disappear," Mal says. "Then I remembered. There is one other reason."

"I wanted to go. I wanted to see Algernon and..." Eames trails off, realizing how empty it all sounds. 

He thinks about the past few days in LA. The eager men with their grasping, the offers of drugs and easy sex. The pretty women with their dead eyes. All in exchange for a bit of money. A brush with fame. A favor. A story to tell their friends.

Mal sighs, and he can hear her sadness across the miles between them. "You were doing well. Almost two years clean."

"I know." Eames ducks his head down, chin tucked to his chest. 

He hasn't gotten high in almost two years and now he's done it twice in one week. What the hell is going on?

 _Interrupt the pattern_ , he can hear the voice of his old therapist saying. What's the pattern?

Eames doesn't want to examine the bloody pattern. He doesn't want to think about why he's annoyed and depressed and pathetically sad after the greatest professional success of his life. He's at the pinnacle of his career. He should be ebullient.

"I miss everyone," Eames says, a terrible hollowness echoing throughout his rib cage. "I miss Dom and Ariadne and Jacquenette and Carlotta and Flowers and Yusuf."

"You know they're only a phone call away."

"Half of those people are paid to indulge me," Eames says. "They deserve to have a holiday undisturbed."

"Jacquenette and Carlotta aren't. Neither am I."

"I miss Arthur."

"Darling, my sweet darling," she whispers. "What is this really about?"

"What?" Eames' racing thoughts come to an abrupt halt.

"Is this about Arthur?" she asks. "Or is this about something else?"

Eames tries to order his thoughts and--emotions. Those frightful things. "I feel like I'm alone out here. Like I've been alone ever since--"

"Arthur doesn't--"

"--ever since you found out about the baby." The words slip out, ugly and raw and true. Mal is silent on the other end and Eames feels like he might vomit. "I feel like I'm losing you. To Dom, to the baby, to motherhood--I'm a selfish git, I know. I'm terrified that I'm losing my best friend."

She doesn't speak, but Eames can hear her breathing on the other end. His heart is racing, sweat blooming across his chest. What has he done? What is he saying? What kind of monster is resentful of a baby? Scared when a friend achieves a life dream?

"You think you are the only one who is afraid?" Mal says, words cracking across the phone line. "You think you're the only one who feels like you're losing something?"

He pauses, confused. He'd expected--well, not this. "This baby is what you've wanted for years."

"Of course she is, but I also--" Mal breaks off, muttering in French. "Everything's changed. Changing. I've gotten fat, my feet hurt, and I need to pee every fifteen minutes."

"You look--"

"I look enormous and I have to push a watermelon out of my vagina in a few weeks. Or months. Or days. I don't know when and nobody can tell me."

Eames sits up. "Are you worried about what it'll be like? Giving birth?"

She chuckles bleakly. "I'm worried about everything. I'm worried I'll be in labor for thirty hours. I'm worried that after, I will stay huge and Dom will stop wanting me. I'm worried I will become one of those terrible women who only talks about their children and has nothing else to say."

Eames' mind whirls with her confessions. "Of all the futures I can imagine, you running out of things to say is the one that seems least likely."

She lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "Yes, you may be right there." She adds, in a softer voice, "I am afraid you will get bored of my talking about babies and leave me, too."

"Never," Eames replies without hesitation. "The sun will burn out before I stop loving and needing you. Whatever matters in your life is what I want to hear about, _mon petit oiseau_."

There's a sniffle on the other end. "I feel the same way towards you, you silly dove. I would burst into a thousand men's washrooms to find you again."

He exhales and wipes at his eyes. "Then we are a petrified pair, aren't we? Petrified over nothing?"

"Not nothing," Mal says. "I can't promise that I'll be able to drop everything and see you the way I used to. Or that we'll be able to talk until dawn after she's born."

"I know," he says, full of grief and hope and the infinite contradictions contained therein. "Things change. They always do. Yet I never feel--prepared."

"Is this why you have stumbled back to drugs and drink?"

It's a simple, straightforward question with no accusation. Eames takes a deep breath. Interrupt the pattern. Be honest. Be brave. 

"Yes." He closes his eyes. "I think I need help."

* * * * *

Eames calls Arthur and reaches voicemail. Relieved, he recites his prepared apologies and hangs up.

Later that evening, Arthur sends a text message: _is everything okay?_

___Yes_ , Eames texts in reply. _I had too much to drink but I'm doing better now._ _ _

__

__

__Arthur sends a smiley face emoji and Eames manages to send one back as well. He supposes--it's a start._ _

__

____

* * * * *

They have special rehabilitation centers for the rich and famous. Exclusive, spa-like complexes in remote locations with innocuous sounding names like "Mountainvale Retreat" and "Clover Hill Wellness Center." Eames enrolls himself in one. He recognizes more than a few household names and acquaintances in the program, including people he never would have expected.

The therapists specialize in helping celebrity clients cope with the surreal isolation of substance abuse and fame. There's extensive group therapy, which is where Eames discovers he's not as bad off as some; he never had a terrifying stage parent literally pimp him out for a guest spot on a reality TV show, for example.

He has a steady stream of supportive visitors: Jacquenette and Carlotta, Yusuf and Pratchi, Ariadne, Flowers and her wife. Mal and Dom's visit is postponed thanks to birthing to a new life.

Meeting a baby in person is an entirely different experience than seeing photos or video. In media, it's easy to coo at plump cheeks and bitty toes and lack of wailing. 

In person, Eames feels ill at ease with the wriggling creature, unsure how loudly to speak or what to do. Should he talk directly at it? Should he touch her or request to? Play a game of some sort? He becomes acutely aware of how little he knows about tiny humans.

"Would you like to hold her?" Mal asks, and Eames says yes because he doesn't know what else to say. It seems rude to refuse someone's offspring on account of spitting up.

The baby--Phillippa--is a wee thing with a squishy red face and fuzzy blond hair and eyes that barely open. She doesn't seem capable of doing much besides squint and flail her arms around at nothing in particular.

Mal has to show him how to hold Phillippa: support the head, cradle the body. She feels delicate against his chest, smacks her lips a few times before drifting off to sleep again. This creature is the center of Mal's world now instead of Eames, and while a part of him still resents it, most of him can grudgingly understand why. Phillippa needs more care and attention than, hopefully, Eames does. Phillippa can literally do nothing for herself, while he has all the resources in the world to deal with his own shit. Which he is attempting to do.

Dom takes Phillippa to change her diaper in the bathroom, leaving Eames and Mal together for a brief moment alone.

"She doesn't look much like you," Eames says, though it's hardly kind.

"I know." Mal chuckles, wry. "The baby books say she will stop looking so much like a baked potato in a few months."

He snorts out a laugh, surprised. "Are you still scared?"

"Are you kidding? I'm more terrified than ever." Mal shrugs, philosophical. "But she's here. There's no sending her back now."

"You're doing wonderfully," he says, and means it.

"I'm--what's that phrase you use? Muddling through." Mal puts her arms around Eames' neck and sinks into a deep hug. "I miss you. Work hard here and come back. I need my best friend to listen to me complain about sore nipples and peeing unexpectedly and the other indignities of motherhood."

Eames laughs and holds her close. "I'll try."

* * * * *

The therapists are kind but not indulgent. The center is structured, but not mindlessly rigid. The setting is picturesque and completely substance-free.

Eames is encouraged to feel, to share, to think about why he does the things he does. It's uncomfortable, painful, and deeply embarrassing.

Eames thinks it might save his life.


	4. Courage

"Hello," Arthur says, and Eames shivers at the sound of his baritone voice, glad he can't be seen. It's absurd, the effect a single word can have on him.

"Hullo." Eames loosens his death grip on the phone. "How are you?"

"Doing good, how are you?"

Even small talk feels high stakes now. "Good. Yes. Mal had a baby."

"I heard from Dom. Congrats to them both. How's she doing?"

"Tired. Resting. Otherwise, well." Eames forces himself to go through the breathing exercises he uses before a big performance. It works. Somewhat.

They chat about mutual friends, weather, other bits of nonsense. It's a touch awkward, but not unbearably so. As the conversation tapers off, Eames steels himself. He can do this.

"When I come back to London, can we—I'd love to see you."

"I'd like that," Arthur says. "We can get dinner and catch up."

Eames lets out the breath he'd been holding. "Dinner sounds lovely."

* * * * *

"Hey," Arthur stands. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing--" Eames resists the ingrained urge to paper everything he's feeling with meaningless pleasantry. "I'm doing better."

"That's good. I'm glad." Arthur wipes his palms on his trousers. It occurs to Eames that he might be nervous, too. "You look gorgeous."

"Thank you," Eames replies casually, as if he hadn't spent a week agonizing over what to wear, or gotten a new haircut and a full body wax. "And you look good enough to eat."

"Thanks." Arthur's gaze darts from Eames' eyes to his mouth, down to his groin. He brushes a kiss against the corner of Eames' lips, his fingers gliding down Eames' waist in an unmistakably intimate gesture. 

They take their seats at a booth hidden in the corner of the restaurant. The candlelight dances across Arthur's handsome features; it's absolutely entrancing.

They make small talk and ease into discussing their lives. Arthur's getting into the swing of things at his firm. He joined a martial arts training center a few months back and has been meeting people through classes.

"That's splendid," Eames says, and is startled to find himself sincere. The possessive urge to hoard all of Arthur to himself is still there, but faded. Quieter.

"Congratulations again on your Grammy wins and performance," Arthur says. "I'm sorry I didn't call to say that when you won. I wasn't sure if you'd want to hear from me when we were in such a weird place."

"Thank you." Eames fiddles with his napkin. "I wanted to apologize for the way I acted during that call. I was drunk and inappropriate."

"The way you sounded--I was kind of worried about you."

Eames nods, trying to tamp down the mounting terror. "I'd like to explain."

The waitress arrives at that moment, offering a small reprieve. They place their orders and Eames savors the sound of Arthur's clipped American consonants. Vows to remember them, in case this is the last night they spend together.

"Anything to drink?" The waitress asks.

Eames can feel Arthur's gaze on him. "Water is fine for me."

Arthur say, "Same here."

After she leaves, Eames takes a sip of his water and wishes it were wine. He can do this. He doesn't need a crutch.

"You didn't grow up listening to much music, did you?" Eames asks, and Arthur shakes his head. "I grew up surrounded by classical. It's what I sang in my vocal training, what I played on the piano. I still remember the first rock concert I ever saw on the telly and how it exploded everything in my world."

Arthur leans forward. "A rock band?"

"Yes. The lead singer--she was captivating. During the broadcast, there were the shots of the audience, which was nothing like the audience of an opera or a symphony. This was a massive crowd of people who came for her, who sang along with every word of her songs. The way they stared up at her was like--" Eames searches for the words. "I wanted someone to look at me like that. I wanted people to scream my name. I thought: that must be what love feels like."

Arthur smiles slightly. "The beginning of a career."

"It wasn't magic from the beginning. I was dreadful when I first started performing my own material. Insecure and fumbling and off-key. The three people in attendance booed." Eames chuckles ruefully at the memory. "But the first time a crowd cheered for me, god, it was at high like nothing else. I'd done drugs, I'd drank, and nothing compared. Nothing."

"You love to perform and the crowd loves you." Arthur, ever patient and understanding.

"It's not real love. I know that." Eames swallows. "I didn't bring you to the Grammy's because I was afraid, and I didn't want these adoring crowds to go away. But the joke's on me because they didn't go away. You did."

"Eames," Arthur whispers.

"You must think I'm pathetic." Eames has difficulty forming the words around the lump in his throat. "That I still want that. I still care about it."

"I don't think you're pathetic. And you not taking me to the Grammy's wasn't why--" Arthur stops and amends. "That wasn't the only reason why I needed a break."

"Then--why?"

"I was really scared I was going to fuck it up."

Eames looks up at Arthur in disbelief. Arthur fuck it up? Impossible to imagine.

"I grew up watching my parents fight and make up, breaking up and getting back together. Including after they divorced," Arthur says. "They finally split for good and my mom remarried a great guy but I still--find myself getting onto similar cycles. Rushing into things without thinking. Leaning too hard on someone and getting mad when they can't meet my impossible expectations. Making my happiness someone else's problem to handle instead of my own."

"But I want to make you happy," Eames protests.

"I know you do, but happiness is something we create for ourselves, not something we should expect someone to give us," Arthur says. "I needed the space to figure out who I am in London, how I want to live here. In the past, I've hidden from my real problems inside a relationship, obsessing over whatever guy I'm with as a distraction. I didn't want that for us. I didn't want being with you to become an excuse not to solve my own problems."

"I think I understand," Eames says, slowly.

"If you met someone else or aren't interested in--" Arthur looks down. "I know it's been a while."

"I want this. I want you." Eames takes both Arthur's hands in his. "At whatever pace you'd like to proceed, I want you in my life."

Arthur meets Eames' gaze, smile sweet enough to crack Eames' heart in two.

* * * * *

On the drive back to Eames' flat, they sit together in the back seat of the car. Arthur kisses Eames tenderly, sending a warm thrill to Eames' toes. They kiss and kiss, Eames reacquainting himself with Arthur's breathing, his cupid's bow lips.

When they reach the flat, Eames takes Arthur by the hand and leads him to the bedroom shyly. Eames touches Arthur's firm chest. "May I--may I suck your cock?"

Arthur tips Eames' chin up. "Of course."

They help each other disrobe, Eames flushing with pleasure whenever Arthur pauses to appreciate the body Eames worked so bloody hard for.

Eames settles between Arthur's legs and nuzzles the exquisite man before him. He forces himself to vocalize what he wants rather than silently wait. "Will you tell me what you like?"

Arthur smooths Eames' hair from his eyes. "I like what you do."

"Yes, but I--" Eames hesitates. "I know you've been with men who are more--practiced. Most of my experience has been with women. I know there are things I don't know. Or do very well, yet."

Arthur seems faintly puzzled. "It's not a competition. I'm not comparing you."

Eames is failing to articulate himself. "What I mean is, I want to make it as good for you as I can. And I--I like it when you tell me what you like. I like to hear you."

"You want me to talk when you suck me?"

Eames' dick twitches at Arthur's words. "I love your voice. Instructing me and telling me how good--everything is."

Arthur smiles and Eames' heart eases. "I can do that."

Eames wraps a hand around Arthur's shaft and licks the head, tracing the ridges and valleys with his tongue. Above him, Arthur makes encouraging noises, softly at first, and then more loudly as he grows comfortable. 

When Eames drops down to lap at bollocks, Arthur sighs and says, "That's good. I like it when you touch me there." Eames shivers and wants to palm his own dick. He restrains himself; he can focus. He wants to focus. 

He licks and kisses and suckles, pleased when Arthur moans, deep in his throat. Eames eventually makes his way up to Arthur's cock again, allowing the responses to guide him. When he sucks it down to the root, he's rewarded with Arthur's breathless whisper, "God, that's incredible."

Eames bobs up and down for a minute to adjust before guiding Arthur's hand to the top of his head. Arthur's fingers are gentle in Eames' hair, lightly directing him.

Next time, Eames will tell Arthur he can be rougher. That Eames might like being made to take it harder.

"I'm gonna come," Arthur says, half an octave lower than his normal speaking voice. Eames feels his own cock jerk and wonders if he could come from this, from hearing Arthur like this.

Arthur ejaculates down Eames' throat with a magnificent sound. Eames swallows eagerly, reveling in Arthur's pleasure, in how pleased he is with Eames. Arthur pulls him up for a kiss and raspy words, "That was awesome, baby. You made me feel so good."

"I'm glad," Eames whispers, touching his forehead to Arthur's. 

"Can you fuck me?" Arthur asks, hip grinding against Eames' cock.

"I want to. I really want to." Eames wants to say yes, wants to do whatever Arthur asks. "But I don't know if I can last. I'm so close."

"That's okay." Arthur wraps his hand around Eames' aching dick. "We can do that next time. Let me help you."

Eames exhales. Arthur doesn't seem disappointed. Doesn't seem annoyed.

"I could watch you suck my cock for hours," Arthur says while Eames trembles. "When I came you took it all like it was nothing, like you loved it."

"I do, I did," Eames agrees, losing the ability to form complete sentences. "I want to."

"I'm going to ride you and come on your cock later. The way you move inside me makes me so hard I can't see straight." The words are a raspy counterpoint to Arthur's solicitous hand, and Eames shakes apart, utterly undone by Arthur's approval.

"Perfect," Arthur murmurs, gentling Eames while he keens. "You did so well."

Eames clings to him, unspeakably glad when Arthur holds him close, unconcerned about the cooling mess between them.

"I missed you," Eames confesses, scared and open.

Arthur threads their fingers together, somber. "I missed you, too."

"I didn't like being away from you," Eames says, barely audible.

"Me neither," Arthur replies. "I'm happy you're back."

* * * * *

Eames wakes up beside Arthur and experiences a wave of delirious joy followed by blood freezing fear. Is this another dream? Another cruel fantasy his desperate mind created, imagining Arthur back in his life?

Arthur shifts in his sleep, huffing out a snore and hint of morning breath. His hair is a wreck, stubble growing in patchy. Not a dream, then; in Eames' dreams, Arthur was always immaculate, flawless in a way reality could never match.

This is better because yesterday was real. This is real.

Arthur stirs. He knuckles crust from the corner of his eye and yawns. "Hi."

"Good morning, darling." Eames allows himself to smile at Arthur, foolish and fond.

"I had a dream about riding your cock," Arthur says sleepily while Eames flushes.

"That could be--arranged." Eames tries for nonchalant and utterly fails.

Arthur warms Eames with his mouth and then sinks onto him with a pleased sigh. He rolls his hips slowly, deliberately, while Eames grips the muscle of Arthur's thighs.

Eames thrusts up, rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, and begins fuck him in earnest. Arthur drops his head forward, grabs Eames' shoulders. "Right there," Arthur mumbles, "Like that."

Arthur's cock requires barely a touch before it stiffens and spurts. Arthur slumps forward as Eames fucks him through it, spurred on by Arthur's slurring words, "Is exactly what I need."

Eames rolls him onto his back. Arthur smiles contentedly as he wraps his legs around Eames' waist. "I want you to come inside me." He only manages a few short thrusts before he does, cocooned in Arthur's arms and body and contentment. 

Eames falls asleep again, wakes up to the aroma of food cooking. He stretches and ambles into the shower, happier than he can remember being in ages.

It's time to be brave, Eames tells himself as he makes his way into the kitchen, where Arthur and a difficult conversation and freshly made pancakes await.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Arthur says, bright and full of affection as he slides a plate across the counter. "Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee if you're having it," Eames says as his trepidation builds. "Care for any assistance?"

"Nah, I got it. You sit back and enjoy."

They eat together and it's nice, talking about plans for the weekend, the day. It would be easy to continue gliding across the surface, to avoid the deeper, less pleasant issues they need to discuss. But avoiding unpleasant conversations doesn't make problems go away. Sometimes it makes them worse.

Arthur is courageous everyday, putting his life on the line for his clients. Eames can muster the courage for a single conversation.

"I have something to tell you," Eames says, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

Arthur looks up from his pancakes. "Yeah?"

Eames takes a deep breath. "Yeah."

Arthur sets down his fork and reaches across the table for Eames' hand. "I'm ready to listen."

fin


End file.
